


runaway

by sirenseven



Series: props [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bad Person Bruce Wayne, Dark Jason Todd, Gaslighting, Good Bro Dick Grayson, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Phone Sex, Rape Aftermath, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Victim Blaming, plot with also porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24249460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: Tim doesn't want to deal with it. He just wants to curl up in a blanket and forget everything. And maybe see someone nice.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Jason Todd, referenced Tim Drake/Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Series: props [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728181
Comments: 99
Kudos: 255





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't qualify any of this chapter as smut, but it's still a VERY hard M, so tread with caution as usual.

Tim wakes up the same way he passed out: being fucked.

The silk sheets of Bruce's bed under his face are familiar, but everything else is wrong: the voice that sounds above him, the pace, even the shape of the hands. He's sore in unfamiliar ways, his throat aches, and the memories filtering back are doing him no favors either.

All the more jarring is the fact that it was dark when he lost consciousness, and now morning light is filtering in the windows.

A hand presses on Tim's back when he stirs, keeping him there more by threat than force. Tim shivers and doesn't try to get up, thoughts stuck in last night. He can't believe Bruce just...

His legs are dangling off the side of the bed, ass pulled to the edge for easy access. He's never felt so much like a toy.

At least his hands are free.

“Didn't you just take a shower?” Bruce's voice asks, further back, making Tim flinch.

It's off to the right a little, slight echo. Like he's standing in the doorway to the attached bathroom. The brief moment where Tim focuses on that deduction is his closest to a respite.

“Why don't you get breakfast and mind your business, old man,” grunts Jason, right over him.

There's an annoyed sigh further back. Tim silently pleads Bruce not to leave as footsteps pad across the carpet. The bedroom door opens and closes without another word.

A hand pulls his hair, and Tim lets it maneuver him blankly, keeping his gaze on the sheets. He wants to think about thread count, and nothing else. He wants Bruce to come back, except he wants the Bruce of two days ago or the Bruce of two weeks ago, not the Bruce of last night.

It's a relief when Jason finally finishes and pulls out. Tim feels filthy and sore like he never has, but at least the stretch is gone.

Only for a moment, though. As soon as Tim has the thought, Jason returns to press something solid into him. It takes Tim a minute to place it as the toy Bruce used yesterday.

“Keep that safe for me, will you?” says Jason, patting it condescendingly.

Tim doesn't point out that technically it's Bruce's, not his. He's not sure how much the difference matters.

Jason leaves the door cracked open when he exits. Tim can hear everything. His footsteps, loping away. Far down the hall, Alfred's shocked and delighted, “Master Jason!” before Jason responds in tones too low to distinguish. He thinks Bruce might join them. He's not sure. He stops paying attention.

Tim lays where he was left for a while.

–

In the end, he uses Bruce's shower as well, even knowing who was in it before him. He's too dirty to want to redress, and definitely not willing to dart through the halls to another bathroom while naked. He pulls yesterday's clothes in with him. The lock on the doors—both bedroom and bathroom—probably won't keep anyone in this house out, but they make Tim feel childishly better.

When he finally makes it into the shower, he has to lean against the tile to compensate for his trembling legs. Even at Bruce's most enthusiastic, Tim has never quite been left like this. And there was always someone to hold him up.

He still feels about a million times better when he gets out. It's a low bar.

Tim doesn't glance at the plug where he left it on the counter. Everything it kept in is washed down the drain. There was a lot of it. Many times what Bruce usually helps him get out, if Tim's assumptions about last night are correct. He tried not to pay too much attention when he was cleaning.

He still looks messed up when he braves the mirror, but a lot more like he got attacked on patrol, and a lot less like he got fucked.

The faint pink scratches on his back when he twists are barely visible, sure to fade by tomorrow. It's the bruises on his hips—easily hidden—and on his neck—not so much—that stand out. Spots of red and purple glare in distinctly finger-like patterns. Tim has had to make up some wild stories to tell his dad about Robin-related injuries, but he's not sure how he's going to cover for this one.

No. That's a problem for Monday Tim. Saturday Tim may have just woken up, but he's too wrung out to deal with one more thing. He just wants to curl up in a blanket and forget everything. Maybe with a warm drink for his throat, and a movie, and...and someone nice.

Tim eyes the bruises on his neck again once he's dressed. They really are blatant. The collar of his shirt does nothing to hide them. He'd need a turtleneck for that, and he's not sure if he owns any. In hindsight, a pretty big oversight. Just because the gorget of his cape protects his neck on patrol doesn't mean it's infallible, even if Tim never could've predicted these circumstances for the injury.

(Strangled, spots in his vision, overwhelmed by sensation both good and bad, at the mercy of a man he _trusted_ and a man he definitely doesn't—)

Maybe if he pops the collar of his jacket? It won't be perfect, but at least it'll be something.

Bruce, he knows, has makeup in these cabinets to hide his own injuries when he has to, but the idea of staying in here any longer when anybody could be right outside makes Tim's skin crawl.

He braces his stance like he was taught and listens carefully. No sounds. No light shifting under the door. Tim unlocks it as silently as he can, and throws the door open.

The bedroom is empty.

He moves through the manor quickly, grabbing his jacket, phone, and wallet from the guest room and slipping out the back door.

Alfred is probably making something amazing for breakfast. Tim is no way going down there.

Somewhere safe with someone nice, he thinks, jogging across the grounds. It leaves him a few options, but only one he really wants, feet pulling him along without needing to think.

He catches the bus to Blüdhaven.

–

So the popped collar isn't doing much.

No one gives him a second glance on the trip over—the unofficial Gotham/Blüdhaven “mind your own damn business” motto has its upsides—but Tim knows he's been caught the second Dick opens the door.

Dick's grimace is sympathetic.

“Hey, Tim,” he says, stepping aside to welcome him in, towel in one hand. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Tim closes and locks the door behind himself, hovering in the entryway. Unbothered by his presence, Dick slides back over to the kitchen, where there's half a sink of dirty dishes and half a drying rack of clean ones.

He's always liked Dick's apartment. Granted, ninety percent of that is because it's Dick's, but the rest is for the welcoming feeling to the open-plan design. It's not very big, but Tim is tired of giant manors with a million rooms, and fancy townhouses with lots of privacy. And he really respects Dick wanting to only use his own money on it.

“What brings you to Blüdhaven?” Dick asks, turning on the water to rinse a fry pan.

Tim opens his mouth and closes it again, entirely at a loss for a good answer. Dick looks back with a furrow in his brow.

“Crap, I didn't forget any plans, did I?”

“No,” Tim assures him. Dick has never forgotten plans with him. Tim has always privately (embarrassingly) considered it a superpower of his; most adults are so busy. Though it's a power at least Barbara and Alfred share. “No, I, um...”

What _does_ he say? Tim didn't really consider the plan coming here; he just left. He didn't even grab a phone charger. He didn't even grab his _car_ , which is a thing, that he has, that makes him not have to use the bus, like an idiot.

“I just thought I'd drop in,” he finishes lamely. His voice sounds more normal than he'd dared hope, despite the ache on his throat.

“Well, you're always welcome.” Dick flashes a smile. He's making short work of the dishes, drying rack filling up.

“You didn't have plans, did you?” Tim's stomach shudders at the thought, but he adds, “I can go.”

“No, no,” Dick says when he starts to inch back, waving him in, and Tim can't help but drift all the way to the couch, “not at all. If anything, you saved me from wasting time all day. You know when you start binging something dumb at lunch and then you blink and it's time for patrol?”

Tim nods, sitting down to watch Dick over the back of the couch, but his chest clenches. Patrol. Shit.

He's been doing his best not to think about how he was supposed to spend all weekend at the manor, and how surely at least one of the three men there has noticed his sudden absence, but the word brings it back. Whatever he could claim during the day, something will definitely be proven by tonight. Robin is supposed to be with Batman, on the weekends he's not with his team.

Tim didn't even think to grab one of his suits to say he wanted to patrol with Nightwing. Not that he had any interest in a detour to the cave, but he could've at least gotten the spare from his own house. Stupid.

“You alright?” Dick asks, holding a pot over the sink to drip. It looks like the last of the dishes.

Tim nods again, forcing his face into an approximation of something cool, calm, and collected. “Yeah. I'm good.”

Dick shakes off the pan, props it up with the rest of the dishes, and dries his hands to join Tim. He sits against the opposite arm, crossing his legs to face Tim. Tim tucks his own feet up in response. He likes Dick's couch too, though he's pretty sure that one's purely psychosocial.

“So what's up?” At Tim's helpless shrug, Dick's eyes dip slightly. By the sympathetic pain on his face, Tim doesn't have to guess where he's looking. He knew he should've covered it up. “Nasty bruise you got there.”

“Yeah,” Tim murmurs. He immediately regrets the swallow that follows, which only reminds him of the ache, and struggling for breath last night, and Jason the other day in the warehouse when he pushed all the way down Tim's throat and Tim was just trying to _fix things_ —

“So did someone get rough on patrol, or was this a full Boy Hostage scenario?” Dick asks, and his words are keeping it light, but his eyes are compassionate, and his expression is so genuine and kind, and he's so _nice_.

Tim lunges across the couch to kiss him.

It lasts about a second before Dick pushes him away, and Tim's thinking he can chalk even that pause up to the element of surprise.

“Sorry!” he exclaims, before Dick can say anything. “Oh god. I'm sorry.”

Dick's eyes are wide in shock.

Tim sucks. He fucking sucks as a person.

“Tim...” Dick starts slowly.

“Sorry,” he breathes again.

“I'm...Shit. I'm—way older than you,” Dick starts, looking so pained and spooked Tim just feels a million times worse, “and you're a _kid_. Which I know no teenager wants to hear, but I...”

Tim shakes his head, crumbling. “No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...”

“I know you have a family and parents of your own, but when I call you my little brother, I really—I really do mean it.”

“I know that,” Tim says, looking down. “I know. I'm sorry. I wasn't even really—I don't even...I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that.”

Whatever years-old, hero-worship crush he had was gone long before he even re-met Dick, and that was more on the concept of _Robin_ anyway. He's really, genuinely, never once thought about kissing Dick.

Until the moment he was already doing it.

He's the worst. And now he's ruined it. Dick is never going to want to be his brother anymore, if he can stand to be around Tim at all after this. And even if he can, it's never...It's never going to be the same. He's so stupid.

Tim feels like crying, which is embarrassing considering he's sixteen, and a boy, and a vigilante who deals with way worse than this on the regular.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, louder, interrupting whatever Dick was about to say. “I should—I can go. I'm gonna go.”

He stands to do just that, but Dick catches him by the hand.

“Hey, wait, don't—”

Tim stares at the ground, but lets Dick hold him back from leaving. It's a selfish allowance. He wouldn't know where to go anyway.

“What happened?” Dick asks.

When Tim dares to meet his gaze, Dick is looking at him with a different sort of concern. It's the kind of empathy that's like the sun—so strong it hurts to look at. Tim averts his eyes.

“I mean—” Dick struggles for words for a moment. “Can you at least tell me what brought this on?”

Tim rocks on his heels. Of course Dick is too smart not to notice when something's wrong. Tim should've realized. Underestimating Nightwing is always a mistake. But maybe that means he isn't worried Tim is secretly pining after him or something after all, so maybe Tim can still fix it, undo his stupid idiot mistake and go back two minutes ago.

“I don't know,” he mutters, a tone that'd be sure to make his dad snap at him to speak up. Dick squeezes his hand. “I guess I just...thought you'd be nice about it.”

“Be nice about what?” Dick asks softly.

Tim risks a glance up. Bruce would make him, but he doesn't want to say it.

Something flits across Dick's face, watching him. He drops Tim's hand, drawing back into the couch cushions.

Dick clears his throat.

It different when Dick puts on the Nightwing role than it is for Bruce and Batman. Batman is this whole other persona, distinct from Bruce and distinct from Brucie Wayne. Too many acts for one man. Nightwing is still Dick, though, just on alert, and constantly assessing, and projecting his competence.

“Can I hug you, or do you want space?” Dick asks.

He doesn't need to consider.

Tim throws himself forward in answer. He only thinks to be embarrassed by it when Dick has already caught him, and then it's too late to feel anything but better.

Dick pulls him onto the couch. Tim must be too big for it, but Dick draws him practically into his lap anyway, wrapping both arms around tightly. Tim squeezes right back. He doesn't know why he went for the kiss. He thinks this is probably better than any sex he's had.

“I really am sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn't...mean it like that.”

“I know,” Dick says.

Tim leans his face against the soft fabric over Dick's shoulder, almost shaking with the relief of that answer. He swears he's not usually this emotional.

“I'm...I understand,” Dick says. He swallows hard, voice quieting. “I think I really, _really_ do.”

They lapse into silence. For a few minutes, he just holds Tim, one hand steadying his head against Dick's shoulder, and the other smoothing his back.

Tim shivers, remembering Bruce duplicating the motion last night, when Tim was on top of him, and his arms were bound behind his back, and he wasn't allowed to move. He can move now, though. Hands free, shirt on. He's on Dick's comfy couch in Dick's warm apartment with _Dick_ , who doesn't even want to kiss him, just hang out and talk and sometimes hug and call him little brother.

Tim knows he's about to speak by the sound of the inhale, and braces himself for it.

“I,” Dick starts, and breathes in hard. His voice comes slow, like every word is second guessed. “I do think I still need you to tell me what happened, though. When you're ready. We can just sit here for now.”

“No, it's okay.” Tim draws back enough that he's not hiding his face in Dick's shoulder like a little kid anymore, even if he doesn't let go. “It's...nothing. I'm handling it. I'm sorry I freaked out on you.”

“Tim...”

He withdraws, sliding to the couch to sit beside Dick instead of half on top of him. Dick's arms loosen, one remaining just lightly wrapped over his shoulders.

Tim isn't looking, so he isn't ready for it when a hand brushes his throat.

He jerks backs. Dick's hand falters in midair, and then lowers.

“Sorry,” he breathes.

“S'okay,” Tim says on instinct. “The—the bruise, y'know.”

Like it was the pain that made him flinch. Like Dick was even touching hard enough to hurt.

Dick's jaw flexes and releases. “It wasn't the bruise, Tim.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Lockhaven is filled with people who underestimated Dick. Idiots like Tim.

“It's just. You know...Batman stuff.” His voice lowers despite himself. He really, really doesn't want to spell it out. On that desperate hope, Tim adds, “I'm sure you dealt with the same kind of stuff when you were Robin.”

Dick's breathing is perfectly even, face locked steady, but eyes just a bit too alight. Tim knows him well enough to recognize it as the look he gets when he's suppressing a really huge reaction—just not well enough to say what that reaction is.

“Tim,” he says slowly, voice not as steady as he's probably trying to make it. “Did Bruce...Has Bruce ever...”

Oh, oh god, no; Dick spelling it out might be even worse.

“No, it's not—He's—Bruce is _fine_ ,” Tim insists, eyes stinging and fervently ignoring how _not fine_ he'd been twelve hours ago. That wasn't—that wasn't _Bruce_ , okay? He's not like that by himself. Tim shoves back against the far arm rest of the couch, feet towards Dick like he can physically distance himself from this conversation. “He's—He just wants to reconnect with Jason, so he's...”

“Jason?” Dick asks, brows furrowing.

He wasn't so baffled a minute ago though, asking about Bruce. Tim considers that his proof that Dick _has_ to know, even if Tim hasn't done a true investigation.

Dick recovers quickly, because he's a detective too.

“So Jason...” He puts a hand over his own throat in demonstration, eyeing Tim's.

“I mean, I—Both of them, technically...”

Dick's hand is still on his neck. His voice is devoid when he asks, “Jason and Bruce both...hurt you?”

Tim has never really practiced lying to Dick, and now seems sunk too deep to learn on the spot. He can't even figure out if he _wants_ Dick to know or not, just that he doesn't want to have to tell him.

Tim nods.

“But Bruce isn't usually...” he starts, and then trails off, unsure if Dick is listening.

The man's careful mask has crumpled, both hands pulling up to wipe at it. He twists, digging his elbows onto the back of the couch to press his face down into his palms. The gesture is so shattered, Tim starts to doubt his proof.

Because Dick must already know, right? Not the Jason-and-Bruce parts, but the...

Tim isn't an _idiot_ , okay; he knows Bruce is way older than anyone doing that with Tim is supposed to be. But it's Batman and Robin. It's Bruce, a _literal_ superhero. It's just, it's, it's just different. And Bruce is always trying to _help_ and be nice to him—

Usually.

(Held him flat, crushing Tim's wrists in one hand so Jason could—)

So he can't be the first. He just can't. Dick has to already know this, because it's Batman and Robin, and that's why it's okay. And he was so sure Jason...

“Sexually?” Dick says, voice hoarse and smothered. One blue eye is visible under his hands, flicking over with trepidation.

Tim fervently does not want to, and nods anyway.

“But not, I mean—Usually...”

Dick closes his eyes.

Tim can't. He can't have told without even meaning to. He can't have ruined everything.

“But you already know that, right?” Tim says, a plea as much as a question.

Dick's hand covers his mouth tightly, staring at Tim.

He doesn't answer.

–

Dick ends up getting bruise cream for his neck, and sits with his knees up in front of him on the couch to apply it for Tim.

He doesn't actually answer the question at all, just turns the conversation back on Tim. It's infinitesimally easier to speak with Dick watching his work instead of making eye contact.

No details. The vague confirmation that something bad occurred last night, which both of them avoid naming, and admittance that that was the source of the bruises. That it wasn't the first time. Neither of them say anything more specific. Tim hates that they both know anyway.

“You're staying here,” Dick says.

Tim doesn't argue. It's a nice concept, if he doesn't think about who else might have the chance to argue.

And then his stomach rumbles, and Dick says he'll make pancakes, and Tim doesn't argue with that either because it seems like it's just as much about Dick needing to do something productive. Dick makes the batter, and they talk about something pointless and inane, and pretend that Tim's admission he skipped breakfast was a completely isolated event.

“They're at the manor?” Dick asks, deceptively casual, when Tim mentions he didn't see what Alfred cooked.

“Yeah,” says Tim.

Dick's knuckles are white around the mixing bowl.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. We're gonna be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nudging some timelines here. Jason is back post-UtRH, but Tim's dad is still alive. Dick still lives in Blüdhaven and is probably with some version of the Titans. We're ignoring all crises. None of that is likely to matter in the slightest, but it makes me feel better to have it sorted out.
> 
> I've been writing this series largely on id-driven whim, and now everyone decided to obstinately run into a plot, so. I have vague notions of what happens next, but no real decision on how this whole thing ends, so if there's anything you're curious about or hoping to see, please feel free to shout it out!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, nothing smutty at all. I decided to split off the last part of this into its own chapter to keep the PoVs consistent, so there will actually be three chapters to this. Stay tuned.

“So where the fuck is he?” Jason says, leaning against the wall with his arms tightly crossed.

Bruce placidly withdraws his head from the room on the opposite side of the hallway. He's been infuriatingly calm about the whole thing, even when they found his bedroom empty and the plug formerly known as Tim's discarded on the bathroom counter.

Jason wasn't exactly expecting Tim to join them for a cheerful family breakfast. Railing the shit out of an unhappy party tends to sour that sort of thing; not to mention the lovely fuck Jason had with his body this morning, consciousness optional. In his ideal world, little Timmy would still be splayed right where Jason left him, though he assumed that was unlikely. But he didn't think the kid would pull a fucking runner.

“Well?” he prompts, when Bruce takes too long to answer.

The older man closes the door silently and leans against the wall beside it, mirroring Jason. The manor's hallways are wider than standard, but he still feels electrically close to Bruce when there's nothing but open space between them.

“He took his phone, but not much else. He's not planning on staying anywhere long.”

“Doesn't he have his own house with his own shit?” Jason asks. Not clearing out the guest room here hardly seems like an obstacle for wealthy, non-orphan Tim Drake.

“Next door,” says Bruce. “Hardly an insurmountable distance to track.”

“So then let's go.”

Jason pushes off the wall, wondering how pissy Bruce will get if he tries to bring his guns. They're still tucked away in his jacket in Bruce's room—not that he believes Bruce hasn't noticed them—and he'd rather not leave them there. Even if Bruce is unlikely to let him shoot the kid.

“No,” says Bruce.

Jason stops in the middle of the hall, already having turned to leave. “What?”

“Better to let him cool off for the moment. We pushed too hard.”

“Don't tell me you're going to blame _me_ for this,” Jason snaps, taking a step towards him. Yeah, fine, maybe he's got a thing for hurting the kid, but he's not the one who started this little incestuous, predatory tradition. He's not going to be blamed for something the old man loved just as much as he did. Bruce should take responsibility for his own shit.

“No,” Bruce says calmly. A tiny slip of a smile hits his face, like he can't entirely hide it. “I...What you did was...very good.”

He's...pleased, Jason realizes. He's pleased with _Jason_ , and in a way Bruce wasn't even expecting to be. For once, Jason managed to do something that took the old man off guard in a positive way.

Jason firmly ignores the he flushes under the approval. His posture loosens.

“So, what? We just leave him be until he's done sulking?”

“Would that be so bad?” Bruce asks, straightening up. It sounds like a real question, too, to gauge Jason's answer.

Jason eyes him, swallowing. Because some part of him does want to close the gap, grab Bruce by the labels to shove their lips together, see who gets consumed first; _pick me, want me, love me_. But then he imagines anything that might happened after that, and...

“Yeah, no,” Jason says. “This whole thing—” He gestures between them. “—ain't gonna work with just the two of us.”

Because no way in hell is he letting Bruce fuck him ever again. And he seriously doubts Bruce would allow it the other way around. Not that it's about the penetration; it's about the...power. And not letting Bruce take his.

“I was promised the weekend, you know,” Jason gripes.

Bruce's smile tips up a little more, affectionate amusement. God, Jason can't remember the last time he had anything resembling _banter_ with the man.

Bruce doesn't even point out that no such promise was ever explicitly made.

“It won't be nearly that long,” he says. “We don't leave him indefinitely. Just let him calm down, then pull him back before anything else happens.”

“How?”

Bruce smiles blithely. “I'm going to call him.”

“Just like that?” Jason says. “You're just gonna call him?”

But he shouldn't be skeptical. That's what Bruce does. Fucks you over, fucks you up, just fucks you, whichever. And then somehow smooths it over with just a few words, without even _apologizing_ , until he has you running right back and forgiving the whole thing.

“Yes,” says Bruce.

Forget the detective work or the fighting; this is Bruce's superpower. That manipulation Jason has never managed to learn himself.

Never had a chance to see from this side.

“Okay,” he says. “Show me.”

Bruce leads him through the halls of the manor, down to the ground floor. Jason tries to pretend he's not interested, even as he trails after.

“First we find out where he is now,” Bruce explains.

Jason rolls his eyes at the expectant pause that follows. One of those little things Bruce does that used to annoy the shit out of him: say something vague or unexplained, and then pointedly wait for someone to ask about it. Personally, Jason blames Dick. He must've asked a hell of a lot of questions as Robin for Bruce to expect so many from Jason.

_Oh, oh, Batman, you super sexy super genius, what has your incredible intelligence determined this time?_

“How?” Jason asks, despite himself, because it's still the best way to keep him talking.

Bruce pauses at the door to his study, hand on the door. He lifts his eyebrows at Jason.

“He took his phone,” Bruce reminds him.

-

Tim's phone is in an apartment in Blüdhaven that even Jason has memorized the address of. Had to know all his locations when he was debating who to pop in on during the big reveal.

Jason lounges in a chair behind the desk beside Bruce, watching the icon blink. There isn't, of course, supposed to be a second chair back here, which is why Jason had so delighted in dragging this one around as loudly as possible. Like hell he's gonna stand while Bruce gets to sit—or, god forbid, take a spot in his lap.

Bruce hits a few keys, and a second icon pops up, practically on top of the other.

“What's that?” Jason asks. “You implant a tracker in his head too?”

“Dick's phone,” says Bruce.

Jason should've figured Bruce compulsively stalks his remaining Robins.

“In Dick's apartment,” says Jason. “Shocking.”

“Hn.”

Jason groans, throwing his head back to stare at the patterned ceiling. “Are you gonna call him now?”

“Dick could interrupt,” says Bruce.

“So?” What the hell does that matter? Jason's head tips over, furrowing brows at Bruce. “Tell him you got a shiny new Robin to fuck and he can wait his turn.”

Bruce frowns at the screen and doesn't answer.

“Hold up.” Jason jerks upright, straightening in the chair. “Have...You fucked Dick, right?”

Bruce's glower remains pointed at the screen, though he can't have anything new to look at. “Not as such.”

“'Not as—' What the fuck does that mean?” Jason leans over the chair's armrest towards him. “Can't you just say yes or no like a normal person?”

Bruce deigns to look at him, raising his brows.

“C'mon,” prods Jason, “was I your _first_ or what?”

“Jason.”

“Ooh, say it again, daddy.”

He smirks in the face of Bruce's weary gaze.

“Seriously, though,” Jason adds, voice sobering, “you really never...?”

Bruce frowns for a moment, before inhaling deeply to speak.

“Not as such,” Jason mimics, before he can.

“Correct,” Bruce says, shifting away in his seat, eyes askance to Jason. He sighs. “You were the first for many things.”

“Huh,” says Jason, dropping back against his chair. “And you really never dicked Dickie.”

He takes a second to settle with that revelation. He'd always figured Bruce diddled all his little black-haired/blue-eyed clones. Now that he knows otherwise...

There's annoyance. Of _course_ Bruce would fuck the rotten street rat who already understood the rules of hooking for rent, and leave pure boy-hero Dick unmolested. It's apt. Jason was the perfect fit for a dirty little secret.

Rich boy Tim Drake sure isn't, though.

So it's not like Bruce won't mar a sweet little beacon of purity, too. He's proven how good he is at that. More like Jason just...opened the door for him. Something perfect Dick Grayson couldn't do.

Something hums through him, that feeling he's basked in all week of _he wants me, he wants me, he wants ME._

Jason. Not Tim, who he'll leave broken and bruised to get his real son back. Not shiny Dick Grayson who he never even fucked. _Jason_.

Jason licks dry lips.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

Bruce's mouth parts. Craving claws through Jason's ribs, pulls at the back of his neck, just for being able to elicit that faint hint of surprise. That craving that's in Bruce too.

Ain't he just the most thoughtful and generous son a father could ask for.

A knock sounds from the door.

Jason remembers to breathe. Bruce clears his throat, breaking the heavy eye contact, and swaps windows on the computer to something innocuous.

“Come in.”

It's Alfred, of course, smiling in on them. “Pardon the interruption, sirs.”

Even after an entire breakfast together, he keeps shooting little glances at Jason, eyes crinkling up each time like he can't believe he's really here. He'd even hugged Jason when he first saw him this morning, a rare display of affection from the usually very British butler. It swells a softer sort of warmth in Jason.

“I merely wished to let you know I have left a late breakfast marked for Master Tim in the fridge, if you'll inform him once he manages to awaken.”

“Actually, Tim had to leave for a while,” says Bruce. “Apparently he forgot some schoolwork at home and wanted to finish it before returning. He said to apologize to you for running out so quickly.”

Justifying Tim's absence from breakfast with the claim he was sleeping in after a late and rough patrol seemed reasonable. This excuse Jason can poke a shitload lot more holes in. Alfred doesn't seem to notice. For a smart guy, he must've bought some pretty ridiculous stories from Bruce over the years.

“What a shame,” is all Alfred says. “Well, I suppose the leftovers are 'up for grabs' then. I'll have to commend the boy on staying dedicated to his coursework.”

“Of course,” says Bruce, smiling as freely as he always does with Alfred.

Everyone's in a such a good mood, Jason quietly puts his feet up on the desk just to see if they'll yell at him.

“I was going to prune back some of the flower garden while the weather remains mild, in case either of you should need me,” Alfred says.

“Actually, I had some work of my own to get done,” Bruce says, glancing to Jason with raised eyebrows.

Jason gets the message: nobody is calling anybody right now, not while Bruce is too busy pussyfooting around Dick's potential interruption. And since nobody's getting naked either...

To stay with Bruce sans buffer and not have sex, or to chill with the one member of the family he's never fantasized about gruesomely murdering. Not a hard decision.

“I'll hang with you, Alfred,” Jason says, pulling his feet down to stand. “Flower garden, you said? You still got forty-seven different types of roses?”

“Indeed, Master Jason.” Alfred smiles, waiting for him to lead the way out of the office. “The shrubbery and and larger gardens, of course, I leave to the true gardeners, but as the only member of staff full-time, I like to handle the flower plot myself...”

–

It's weird, being in and around the manor that afternoon. It's weird being in the manor at all, but less weird when he was with the new kid in Bruce's sex-filled bedroom. It's _really fucking weird_ being in the manor with just Bruce and Alfred, like he's fifteen again and expecting Bruce to pull him into an alcove for a quick grope every time Alfred turns his back.

He doesn't. Bruce stays in his office the whole time, far as Jason can tell, and Jason has a lovely day with Alfred.

The old butler's always been good at keeping things light and trivial. He doesn't bring up the past, or address the reason for Jason's absence, and he doesn't even mention Tim again at all. By the time they shift from the garden to the kitchen to work on some bread, Jason is actually having some good, wholesome, family-friendly fun, hardly thinking about Bruce at all.

Bruce texts him when the bread is going into the oven. Jason wasn't aware Bruce knew his number, and he makes a mental note to ditch the phone as soon as he leaves so Batstalker can't get him too.

_Dick is going to the store._

Such an innocuous sentence, for everything it implies. Jason swallows, heat dropping to the base of his spine. Christ, he's gonna turn into one of those people who can get hard in half a second for the right set of words.

“Hey, Alfie,” he says, quickly stowing the phone as he looks up. “You don't mind if I ditch you while these are in the oven to see what Bruce is up to, do you?”

“Not at all,” Alfred says, smiling. “I'm glad to see the two of you getting along.”

Jason beams back. “Just takes shared interests, right?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who was a fool to preemptively lower the rating! (me.) Also added a few new warnings for terrible manipulation, but nothing that I think will surprise you if you've read this far.
> 
> I've rewritten parts of this chapter a bunch as I tried to figure it out, so hopefully it's come out to something cohesive now that I've finally cracked it. ♥ to everyone who's commented on these past chapters and motivated me to work this one out.

Tim makes it through ten minutes of pointless videos on his phone before he starts losing his mind.

He should have taken Dick up on the offer to join him to the grocery store. He should have taken Dick up on the offer to order takeout tonight and _not go_. But Tim had been intent on not getting in the way, intent on not being a burden. He threw so much effort into convincing Dick he'd benefit from some time alone that he'd half convinced himself.

He is not. Benefiting from it.

Dick is going to come home to a hole worn straight through his floor from Tim's pacing.

He's messed everything up. And the only thing worse than knowing he's messed up is not even being sure when.

By coming here? By telling Dick? Was his mistake in letting Jason close after the first time, or in fighting and trying to keep him away? Or had he already messed up with Bruce a long time ago, and didn't even notice until now?

Consciously, Tim knows Dick isn't upset with him, but he _is_ upset, and Tim hates it. He doesn't want to ruin Dick's relationship with his dad—not that either of the men will use the word. Much as Tim personally dislikes Jason, he doesn't want to ruin Bruce's chance to reconnect with his younger son either.

He really doesn't want to lose Robin. Or Bruce. The two things are tangled up.

What feels like a million years ago, when Tim first started, he was so sure Robin was going to be a temporary gig for him. Put in his time, get Batman back on his feet, and return to a normal life. Tim doesn't know when it changed—maybe the losses that destroyed Young Justice; maybe the little success of a person saved; maybe it was just a gradual shift. All he knows is a few months ago, when his dad nearly found his war journals and Tim was almost confronted with having to give it all up, he realized it wasn't temporary anymore.

He can't imagine seeing someone in danger and not leaping into action now. He can't imagine returning to a life that doesn't include Bruce. Or Dick, or Stephanie, or Barbara, or Kon and Bart and Cassie and—

But Bruce. Bruce doesn't need him if he's not Robin.

He's going to fix this.

He just has to figure out which parts need fixing first.

In the meantime, Dick's floors are losing all their polish. Tim is reminded of the ache between his legs with every step, but it's not stopping him.

He should meditate. Or wake up Dick's laptop to keep watching the frivolous sitcom they'd distracted themselves with. Try to nap. Something to slow himself down. Or he should go for a run. Dig out Dick's hidden training equipment, even if he has no workout clothes with him. Burn off the energy so he might be able to chill for two consecutive seconds.

He's not acknowledging the thought that there exists an activity that can give him a shot of relaxing endorphins and burn off energy at the same time.

Tim glances back at the couch.

No! No, he's not acknowledging it. Not thinking about it. Even if he is sort of thinking about it.

This is ridiculous.

...He just can't decide why it's ridiculous.

Because he's a teenage boy who of _course_ would think about jacking off at an inappropriate time, nothing to feel weird about? Because he's straight up considering masturbating on his not-brother's couch; very weird? Or because he's feeling like _this_ right after...that. Which he'd insisted he didn't like, so fervently he'd gone running to Dick about it.

That seemed like such a good idea when Dick was here. Now that he's gone, Tim feels more and more like it was a mistake by the second. Making mountains out of molehills.

Tim groans loudly, pausing beside a wall to smack his head into it. This is stupid. Okay.

He vaults over the couch, tosses his phone onto the coffee table with more force than necessary, and throws himself back into the cushions. His legs splay open. He's just gonna do it.

No, wait. No, he isn't. He's gonna watch a dumb show and stop thinking about it.

Actually, yes, he is gonna do it.

No, he isn't. Yes, he—

The things is, okay, the thing is, it's not just about the motions. Okay, yeah, wrap a hand around his dick, get a momentary decrease to his stress levels, make sure absolutely nothing in any way touches or soils Dick's couch. Fine. But his brain is going to picture _something_ during it, and if Tim doesn't pick what now, it will pick on its own.

He's on Dick's couch in Dick's apartment (crap, _is_ he a bad person?), but he obviously can't think about Dick, who is genuinely like a brother and a really good one at that. Thinking about Bruce, who is _not_ like a father, just makes his stomach twist in confusion. Jason, of course, is more of a nightmare.

He should think about Stephanie, who Tim likes even if Bruce doesn't, or one of the kids from school. From the Titans. Some other teen hero he hasn't met yet. _Someone_ his age and not awful.

But thinking about any of them makes him feel awful in a different way, like he's dragging them into this mess just by fantasizing.

Which is _stupid_ because there is no mess—puns aside. This is a totally normal thing to do in a totally normal way, that just so happens to be the day after a different thing that was...less normal. Jason sucks. Bruce is bad at expressing himself. Tim is _fine_ and everything is _fine_ and he's going to stop making a big deal out of things that are _fine_.

His phone buzzes.

Tim's hand, which had crept down over his jeans, flies away at lightning speed, and he shoots upright. Bruce's name on the screen does nothing to quell his rapid-fire heartbeat.

His first and absurd thought is, _He knows!_

Which is silly. Cultivated reputation aside, Batman is neither psychic nor omnipotent, and definitely does not know what Tim was maybe possibly considering sort of doing in a totally normal way.

His second thought, both more rational and far worse, is that Bruce is going to ask him where he is and why he left. And Tim is going to have to answer. And say when he's returning. There's definitely going to be something about when he's returning. When Bruce expects him to, at least.

With totally-not-shaking hands, Tim picks up the phone.

He has to clear his throat, wincing for the way the sound must carry through the call.

“Hey, Bruce.”

Cool. Cool, cool, good opening. Super convincing on that not-remotely-casual voice.

“Tim,” Bruce says, like it's a sigh of relief. That single word, in a voice he's known better than his own for the past three years, hits Tim like a sucker punch. “Where _are_ you? I—Alfred was worried, when we couldn't find you. I even searched your house.”

Tim cringes into the cushions. _Alfred was worried_ , Tim has learned, is usually code for, _I was worried but I'm too repressed to say that_. Emotionally stunted, Dick always calls him.

“I'm—I just...went to Dick's place.”

“We had no idea where you were,” Bruce says. “You ran out without saying a word.”

Tim's dad jumps to yelling pretty quickly at any percieved slight. Bruce rarely raises his voice like that, yet somehow it's just as obvious when he's angry. Maybe it's just that Tim's attuned to his moods. Bruce says that's the foundation of a good partnership. Makes Tim seem even stupider now.

“Sorry,” Tim says towards his knees. Stupid or not, he has enough courtesy to know running out on someone without so much as a goodbye is massively rude. Especially when the someones you're running out on have literally offered you a place to live and a purpose in life.

Alfred and Bruce, that is. Jason can suck it.

He can hear the deep breath Bruce takes, crackly and rough through the phone's microphone. He doesn't accept Tim's apology aloud, but it seems to appease him.

“I missed our morning routine,” Bruce says, softer.

Morning routine. Meaning the mornings after, you know, _sex_ , when Bruce leads—or sometimes carries, as Tim protests it's unnecessary—him to the shower, cleans him up, those gentle touches without ulterior purpose. The times when he's more of a caretaker than Tim would ever have expected from the brusque Batman he first met.

None of that softness this morning.

“You were busy at breakfast with Jason,” he mutters.

After a beat, Bruce says, “I see.”

It's the tone he uses when he's made a deduction. Inspiring in masks, no so much out of them. That tone always puts Tim on edge when the deduction is about him and he hasn't figured out what it is yet.

“This is about Jason,” says Bruce.

“Well...sort of, yeah.”

“Tim. I understand why you might feel insecure,” Bruce says, with a note of reproach, “but I didn't think you would be immature like this.”

Tim gapes at the opposite wall, mouth working uselessly for a moment. “What?”

“You've always had my full attention before. This is the first time you've had to share it. Unfortunately, envy seems to be a pattern; Dick was the same way when I took Jason in. Maybe it's my fault for not picking more mature partners...”

“No!” Tim exclaims. He's a _good_ Robin; Bruce has said so, and that's not even what— “I'm not—He _hurt_ me, Bruce.”

It's true, but he wishes he didn't sound like such a pansy about it.

“And no one's more relieved than I that you were healed,” Bruce says. Tim furrows his eyebrows. “Jason hasn't always dealt with his anger well, and the rest of us can only imagine the toll on his mental state so soon after his rebirth.”

Titans Tower. He's talking about when Jason came after Tim at Titans Tower and nearly beat him to death.

Tim is obviously doing an awful job of explaining. He just didn't think it needed explanation.

“I don't mean when—I meant last night.”

“Last night?” Bruce repeats, sounding confused.

Tim's betrayal falters. Did he really not...?

“I...He tied me down,” Tim says. He shudders with the echo of that helpless feeling, struggles ignored.

“I've restrained you before,” Bruce says, voice lowered in a way that makes Tim shiver for a different reason.

Bruce holding his wrists to the mattress, or Tim instructed to keep his hands wrapped around the headboard, forbidden to touch. There had always been the sense he could get out though, not the true fear of being trapped.

Tim swallows. “That's not the same thing.”

“You liked it.”

“You _strangled_ me.” And, look, he really doesn't want to sound like he's making accusations, but it's hard to see that one as solely on Jason. Bruce's hand was around his neck too.

“Tim,” Bruce says, “maybe you don't remember, but you climaxed so hard you passed out. I've never seen you that enthralled before. Honestly, I...didn't realize how unsatisfied you were with me.”

“I'm not!” Tim insists. “I—I have _bruises_ on my _neck_ , Bruce. My dad will notice.”

“I could have helped you with that if you'd been here,” says Bruce, a little testy.

Tim sucks in a breath, trying to stop himself from getting annoyed in response. Escalating only makes things worse. Makes his dad yell louder, or Bruce shut him out. He doesn't want to be shut out. Tim wouldn't say it out loud, but sometimes Bruce can be the coldest person he knows, and it _hurts_.

“I don't want to do that again,” he says, trying to sound calm and firm. “Not with Jason.”

“You don't have to be embarrassed about enjoying it, Tim. I know it seems like all or nothing to you right now, but I promise I'm not a teenager and I won't be jealous.”

“I didn't enjoy—”

“Three orgasms in one night, Tim?”

His cheeks burn. There's nothing he can argue on that. He did. He did come, on command from Jason, hand squeezing his neck, no matter how much he swears taking both of them hurt.

Tim glances at the front door. No rattle at the handle, thank god. The only thing worse than this would be if Dick came home in the middle of it to overhear and compound his humiliation. Or completely undercut Tim's earlier breakdown, once Dick knows how much he liked it.

“I'd rather have this conversation in person,” Bruce says after a moment, every bit as calm and rational as Tim isn't. “I don't want you to feel insecure about your place here.”

“I don't,” says Tim, but his voice is loosing strength.

“Good. Just because Jason is joining us doesn't mean you are wanted here any less.”

“I don't want _Jason_ there,” Tim grumbles.

“Don't be selfish, Tim.”

His shoulders might have reached his ears. Tim is okay if the sofa wants to swallow him right now.

“You are right about the bruises,” Bruce admits. “Maybe we did get overzealous in our excitement. We'll make sure not to leave any more in the future.”

We.

“Jason...” Tim trails off.

“Is part of this family.”

And Tim's not. Bruce won't say it—all of them go so out of their way to make him feel welcome—but Tim's not. He has his own family.

“I'll talk to him too,” Bruce allows. “He shouldn't feel insecure either.”

It _is_ a concession, even if it's not what Tim wanted. But he can't always get his way, right? He doesn't want to become one of the spoiled rich socialites Bruce always complains about after a party— _That's what happens when kids get whatever they want. I'm so glad you know how to compromise, Tim._

Bruce sighs deeply. Tim fits his head against the cushions, slouching.

“I'll come pick you up and we can talk more at home.”

“I don't want to just...run out on Dick.” Tim fidgets.

Dick, who will probably get upset if Tim leaves at all. Bruce, who definitely will if he _doesn't_. Tim's feelings churn in disarray. He hates screwing up, and he really hates not knowing what he did.

He shouldn't have come here. Shouldn't have ruined Dick's day, and made Bruce and Alfred worry, and—and considered defiling this lovely couch, which maybe isn't as bad as the rest, but still.

“Why, were you in the middle of something?” Bruce asks.

“No,” Tim says, way too quickly.

His heart stutters at the slip up. There's no way Bruce didn't notice that.

“I mean, we weren't, you know, doing anything in particular, just, um, watching Netflix or whatever.” Tim chuckles, but it sounds nervous even to his ears so he stops. “Normal stuff.”

“'Were?'”

“He went to get groceries.”

“So what are you doing now?” Bruce asks.

Tim glances down at his lap, and then jerks his eyes up very quickly. “...Nothing.”

“Hn.” The line crackles with a breath. “I'll admit it's been awhile since I was a teenager, but I assume 'nothing' is still code for 'something.'”

Tim doesn't answer. Any lie would fall apart at the slightest breeze, let alone a world-class detective.

A shifting sound comes through the phone. When Bruce's voice chimes in again, it's almost teasing.

“What are you wearing?”

Tim flushes. “ _Bruce_.”

“Yes?”

Tim lifts the phone away for a second to drop his face into his hand. Alright. It's okay. It's just Bruce. He straightens.

“I'm not...I wasn't going to do it, okay. I'm in Dick's apartment.”

“You said he was out.”

Tim falters. “He is.”

“Then why not?”

“It's—I mean, it's his couch and everything. I don't want to...”

“You're careful,” says Bruce.

It's a compliment. He can feel it's a compliment, even if Bruce doesn't spell it out.

“I know you can be careful enough you won't sully any of his furniture, Tim. You don't have to deny yourself for that.” His voice is dropping lower, not Batman's growl but the tone that makes Tim blush on instinct. When Tim stays silent, he adds, “It's just me. Full attention on you; that's what you wanted, right?”

Bruce is impossible when he gets like this. Although he's not...wrong. Tim doesn't think he's wrong. He did want Jason gone, and this is no Jason. Compromise.

There's just this gnawing ball of guilt in his stomach.

He came all the way out here, inserted himself into Dick's weekend, just to...he doesn't know. Throw himself at the nearest available not-Bruce like a slut. Share secrets that weren't his to reveal.

Dick looked so upset Tim was actually afraid he would cry for a minute. Tim ruined his weekend; maybe his bond with Bruce; any potential of rebuilding a relationship with Jason, his real brother. All because Tim crashed in and made Dick comfort him over...

Over what? Something he _liked_?

But it upset Dick. And something about letting Bruce talk him into this just feels like a betrayal of Dick, after all that.

“I just,” Tim says slowly, “don't think Dick would like it if he found out. He didn't like...”

Tim trails off, going cold. The silence is deafening.

“Didn't like what?” Bruce asks, after a long pause.

Dangerous tone. Abort, abort. Tim swallows hard, and then does it again when he can't seem to find any moisture.

“Don't be mad.”

Bruce is silent. Tim shifts on the couch, squeezing the phone to his ear.

“I might have...mentioned that... Listen, I was just really upset about last night.”

He hates phone silences. In-person silences have faces and body languages and a million ways to tell what kind of silence it is—angry? Calm? Amused? Phone silences are all the same kind of inscrutable cold.

“I though he _knew_ ,” Tim justifies. “He was Robin!”

It's another minute of horrible silence before Bruce finally speaks: “What exactly did you tell him?”

“Not...much.” Technically. Tim assumed Dick filled in a lot of gaps on his own, but reviewing the conversation in his head (no less uncomfortable the second time), he didn't actually talk about anything pre-Jason. “About last night and this morning. And...the warehouse the other night, sort of.”

“Anything else?”

“I don't think so.”

“You don't _think_ so.”

 _Incomplete information can be the difference between life and death, Robin_. A million memory training exercises and he can't remember one conversation from three hours ago.

“Sorry.” Tim squeezes his eyes shut.

Bruce's voice comes through low and disappointed. “I really thought you understood, Tim.”

“I did. I _do_. I swear, I thought he knew...” There's another silence, during which Tim silently calls himself every name he can think of. “Bruce, I'm—I'll leave once he gets back, okay? I just shouldn't run out on people without saying goodbye, right?”

“Hn.”

“Would you please just tell me—” Tim twists his face into his shoulder, casting about for anything he can say to fix this. Bruce doesn't speak. “I, um. Do you still want to...?”

“Want to what?”

Tim's face is burning. “You know...”

“Tim, are you asking me if I want to have phone sex?”

Embarrassing the hell out of himself is what he's doing. But Bruce's voice has a hint of that teasing amusement again, not so cold and distant, so it's worth it.

“Do you?”

In the beat that passes, Tim holds his breath and desperately hopes Bruce is smiling.

“Take off your pants.”

He doesn't hesitate. Tim has one ear out for the door, but he's just going to have to take the risk that he can pull his pants up before Dick can get inside with hands full of grocery bags if he comes back early.

“Okay,” Tim says, when he's pushed them down past his knees. He figures it doesn't matter if they get all the way off if Bruce isn't here to see it.

“Good. Put the phone on speaker. You'll need your hands.”

Tim does so, setting the phone carefully on the table before leaning back. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Start slowly. Your legs. Your abs. Your nipples.”

Tim has been having sex for years, so he really shouldn't still blush at the word 'nipples.'

“Circle them lightly,” Bruce instructs. “Pinch just a bit. Does that feel good?”

“Uh-huh,” Tim manages, mouth open around his breaths. His shirt bunches up over his hand. It's unfair that Bruce's voice alone has such an effect on him. He feels like one of those dogs conditioned to salivate for food at the sound of a metronome, except it's Bruce and sex.

“How long have you wanted to do this? Since you've been alone? Since you left?”

“Not long,” says Tim, still gently kneading his nipples beneath his shirt like he knows Bruce wants. He's embarrassingly close to full hardness.

“I think your body knows you were supposed to be here,” Bruce continues, ignoring his answer. “That it was supposed to be my hands. Touching. Teasing. Keeping you on edge all day.”

Tim catches his breath.

“Move a hand down now.”

It leaves goosebumps down the center of his chest, his abdomen, before slowly diving beneath his briefs.

“Can you come without touching yourself?” Bruce asks.

“I can't really—I haven't done that. By myself.”

“It's always worse alone,” Bruce says. “That's okay. I'm here. You can touch yourself.”

He does, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking slowly. The hint of dry friction is mitigated by Bruce's soft voice.

“You'll like it better with something inside you,” Bruce adds.

“I don't have any, um.” Tim keeps his touches teasing, not going any further than Bruce has allowed. “Lube.”

“That's okay. Just one finger, Tim. I know you can do it.”

Tim nods shakily, not that anyone can see.

“Put it in your mouth first,” Bruce says. “Lick around it. Get it wet.”

“Mhm,” Tim hums, the closest to a confirmation he can get with his lips wrapped around a finger.

Bruce groans. “You have no idea how you look when you're like this. Incredible.”

Tim hums again, an involuntary reaction to the praise.

“Good boy... That's enough, Tim. You can put it in now. Slow and steady.”

He has to cant his hips further to reach, other hand stilling around his length. Tim wriggles the tip of his finger in, before pressing it as far as he can. There's a little sting, where he was stretched horrifically wide last night, but Bruce is right. He can handle it.

“It's in,” he says, barely loud enough for the phone to pick up.

“That's good. Keep stroking yourself and pump it in and out, Tim.”

He obeys, not moving too fast on either. Tim tries to twist his finger to find that perfect angle, but he can't seem to get it right. It's hard to reach completely, shivers going up his spine from both motions but unable to resolve into anything.

Tim doesn't know why he'd break down over something so minimal, but tears spring to his eyes.

“It's not...I can't...”

“Is it as good as when I do it? As my fingers?”

“No,” Tim whimpers. “No, it's...it's not as good.”

A minute passes with only breaths, as Tim slowly works himself higher and higher. He turns his face to the side, into the back of the couch, muffling his pants. Bruce stays silent, not even his own breathing audible.

“Bruce,” Tim chokes.

“Yes?”

A gasp rushes out. He's still there. Tim doesn't know how to say it, how to express anything he needs to, but he knows he needs to fix it. “I'm sorry.”

He keeps pumping his hands in the silence, because Bruce would want him too, even if Bruce can't see.

“I forgive you, Tim.”

The words wash over him like a benediction, making Tim shudder. He squeezes his eyes shut against the tears. He doesn't know why he's so emotional. He just wants to be good.

“Do you want to come?” Bruce asks softly.

“Uh-huh.” Tim isn't there yet, but he knows he can be as soon as he's asked.

“You don't want to make a mess,” Bruce reminds him. “You'll have to do it right over your stomach. Take off your shirt.”

“What—” Tim pants, “what if—Dick—?”

“I think he'll get an eyeful anyway,” Bruce says, chuckling, and Tim shakes with humiliation. “But you're right. It's okay. Just push the front up. You can hold it in your mouth.”

Tim takes the hand off his cock to do so, not wanting to have to re-insert the other one. He rucks up the shirt, making sure there's a clear section right on the front of his stomach as he folds over the hem to bite down on.

“You have it?” Bruce asks.

“Mm.” His voice is muffled enough to prove it.

“There's a good boy. You can speed up. Move harder. Pretend it's me.”

Bruce's hands would be much bigger. The finger inside would fill him out more, maybe more stings of pain without any lube, but Bruce would shush him through it. The other hand would mostly cover his length, moving strong and sure. Tim tries to imitate it.

He can feel it building. The pleasure mounts, until Tim is holding it back rather than spurring it on. He knows little sounds are breaking out of his mouth, glad he's too distracted to be abashed.

“I'm proud of you, Tim,” Bruce rumbles, “following orders so well.”

Tim whines, hips twitching, but he neither comes nor slows down. Not until Bruce says.

It's hard, though. It takes Tim a minute to realize that the noises he's making are forming the shape of muffled “please”s, whimpering without stop.

Bruce is silent a minute longer—twenty second, ten minutes; he can't tell. Tim knows he's getting louder, but he doesn't let the tears fall. He can be good. He can wait.

(“Tell him,” Jason whispers in Gotham, hand moving fast around his own length, eyes locked with Bruce's.)

“You're okay now. Come, Tim.”

–

Hanging up is monumentally awkward. Tim promises again that he'll leave soon, but he has to clean up before Dick gets back. He's still holding the shirt away from his midsection, though now with a hand.

That post-sex shame hits him hard, like he just robbed a bank or killed someone. It is (like most things, maybe) easier to manage with Bruce around, but it sucks when the only voice in his head is his. Tim has the overwhelming sensation he's an awful person, and can't name why.

He ends up taking yet another shower, arms wrapped around himself behind Dick's striped curtain, trying to wash something more than the physical away.

Tim is fully dressed and put together when Dick returns, but the shower fan is still dispersing the steam. Dick gives him a sad look, mouth pinched, but doesn't say anything about it as they exchange greetings and small talk.

Tim trails him to the kitchen as he puts away his groceries.

Dick bought one of those premade, take-and-bake pizzas, Hawaiian because they both love it. Tim stares at it on the counter, steeling his nerve.

“So I think I'm going to head back to Gotham,” he says.

Dick slams the fridge closed, turning around. “What?”

“I just...” Tim has done so much lying since he became Robin, and hated every bit of it, but he doesn't know how Dick would accept the truth. “I have some cases that I don't want to abandon.”

“They can live without you for one weekend,” Dick says, setting a full grocery bag aside to focus fully on the conversation.

“The trail could go cold,” Tim says, avoid his eyes. “I just don't want to leave everything. I mean—I still have a house, and everything, and my dad will be back on Monday, so...”

“Tim, I promise things will be fine if you take a few days away. You can go back when your dad is home, okay?”

“I want to leave,” Tim snaps, and tries not to cringe when Dick looks crestfallen.

Another lie for his collection.

Dick swallows, working his hands in and out of fists. Nervous habit. Dick always seems to have extra trouble stifling motion when he's conflicted.

“Okay,” he says after a long moment. “You...you shouldn't have to uproot your life. You're just going to go back to your house?”

Tim nods, unable to look up. He hates this. He's just glad he's sixteen now and people don't go crazy over the idea of him staying home alone for a weekend.

“Will you stay for dinner at least?” Dick asks. “Until patrol?”

Tim hesitates, but agrees to dinner.

His reluctance has nothing to do with not wanting to stay. This is one of the best places on Earth when Dick is here. He just knows he's making too many promises to too many people. At some point it's going to catch up.

Tim sends a quick text to Bruce about the delay when Dick isn't looking, trying not imagine the ire on the other side.

The late afternoon starts as an awkward affair, only clearing up somewhat when Dick lures him into a conversation about video games over dinner. He's clearly been studying up; Dick knew nothing about games made after he was a kid the last time Tim brought it up. He still has a slightly outdated view of Fortnite's popularity, surely absorbed through osmosis, but he actually remembers 90% of what Tim explained about Minecraft, even though it was weeks ago.

It's the first time Tim stops thinking about the Bruce/Jason thing, if only for a minute.

Discomfort settles in again, when Dick offers to watch a few more episodes after dinner and Tim has to decline.

He hopes Dick doesn't hate him. As long as Dick doesn't hate him, and he probably doesn't because he's Dick, Tim can still fix this next time. He just has to get through this stupid evening.

“Thanks,” Tim says, when he's shuffling to the door, double checking his phone and wallet.

“Of course,” Dick says. “Seriously, any time. You can always come here.”

His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, uncomfortable, but his words seem genuine.

Tim manages half a smile. “I know.”

“Good,” Dick says, providing the other half.

He opens his mouth again, and for a second Tim is absolutely certain he's going to bring it up, address the elephant in the room, say they need to talk and Tim needs to tell him everything. Maybe even insist Tim stay, whether he likes it or not.

And then the moment passes, and Dick closes it again.

“Call me if you need anything,” he says instead. “Seriously, anything. Any time. I don't sleep.”

“Yes you do.”

“Pretend I don't.”

Tim reaches for the doorknob.

“Text me when you get home, too,” Dick adds. Tim drops his hand. “...Just to be safe.”

“Okay.” Tim raises his eyebrows at Dick's continued fidgeting. “Would you like hourly updates?”

“Maybe.”

“Dick.”

“Alright.” Dick huffs. “But, I mean, you could. Phone is always on. And I'm only one city away.”

“You remember I did manage to get myself here, right?”

Dick chuckles, looking down. “Yeah, I know. You're very capable and self-sufficient.”

Tim doesn't know about that, but his cheeks warm at the sincere tone anyway.

“I'll see you soon,” he says, both for Dick's sake and his own. By the tension in his chest, he'd think this was a long-term and emotional farewell, not a completely ordinary parting. He may well see Dick within the week.

“Yeah,” says Dick. “Permission to hug?”

His tone is joking, but Tim knows he means it seriously. He tries not to wonder if Dick's going to be cautious around him forever.

“Granted.”

It's a good hug. Tim feels worse about leaving.

–

A car meets him at the bus stop just inside Gotham, ensuring Tim won't need to make any time-wasting transfers. It's a smaller, sportier car than usual, and it's not Alfred inside, but Bruce himself.

Bruce gets out to lean by the door, waiting on his approach.

“Hey,” Tim says when he's close enough, shoulders hunched. He doesn't know what's going to happen, only that if Bruce breaks his usual pattern and yells, Tim might actually melt into the ground.

He doesn't yell. He doesn't even frown. Bruce wraps a tight arm around him, and leans over to press and kiss in his hair.

“Thank you for coming home, Tim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (“It's just me,” Bruce lied, like a liar.)
> 
> Next time: dick! Do I mean the anatomy or the character? Unclear, but leaving it vague gives me room if I change my mind.


End file.
